


The Letter

by play_doh



Category: The Sound and the Fury - William Faulkner
Genre: (that was a joke dont come for me), Can be interpreted as platonic or romantic - Freeform, M/M, fuck harvard, i havent read absalom absalom so idk if this is fully canon compliant, it's not really a spoiler but quentin dies, not written in Faulkner's style, poor shreve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-28 18:26:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18761947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/play_doh/pseuds/play_doh
Summary: What was in the letter that Quentin left to Shreve?





	The Letter

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I felt like there maybe could've been something between Quentin and Shreve. Maybe that was just me projecting onto them or something, but... maybe it wasn't?
> 
> I'm posting this partly in celebration of the AP Lit exam being today. Congrats on surviving!
> 
>  
> 
> *
> 
>  
> 
> Suicide isn't cute, pretty, romantic, or 'the hero's way out'. Don't end up like Quentin. If you need help, the national suicide prevention hotline is 1-800-273-8255.

It had been a month since they had extracted him from the river. The flow of time seemed to pass like the currents in the stream, passing over both Quentin and Shreve. He hated returning to the dorm. It was too quiet, too empty.

The first time he had returned to the tidied-up room had been a surprise. Quentin wasn’t necessarily messy, but his belongings had been packed up. Shreve didn’t know of any holidays coming up, and he hadn’t heard his roommate mention any special occasion he had to attend, but then again Quentin had never been one to bring up those kinds of things.

There was the wedding, of course, but Shreve had only learned about that because he had seen the envelope on Quentin’s desk.

Then, a day passed, and Quentin never returned to pick up his bags. Maybe he forgot them, Shreve thought. But he never forgot things, did he?

The second day passed, and Shreve thought maybe he was out and about at odd hours.

On the third day, the boys by the river made a commotion as Shreve passed by.

“We finally caught it!” they shouted with glee, dancing around.

“Caught what?” the passerby had asked.

“The biggest fish! No one’s ever caught it before, and we finally did it!” one kid exclaimed.

“Yeah, only it’s so big we can’t pull it out,” the other sighed.

“Well, let’s see if I can help,” a man in a light grey suit offered. He set down his briefcase and gripped the rod, tugging at it gently so test the weight of the catch. He furrowed his brows and began to pull until eventually, he stumbled back, the rod coming free from the river. Attached to the hook was a piece of waterlogged cloth. The man frowned, moving to look more closely into the river. The glare of the sun and the sediment in the stream made it difficult to see what was there. Shreve couldn’t see a thing, but he was several paces away from the bridge.

The man turned to the kids and asked them in a low, calm voice to go get the police. They whined, complaining that the man just wanted to steal their catch, but he didn’t budge. Eventually, they gave in and scampered off.

The officials arrived in due time, and then they found him.

Was it strange that he still looked as handsome as ever? Maybe more peaceful, like a weight had been lifted from him. Or maybe that was just the six-pound weights which were extracted from his suit pockets.

  
Shreve’s soul fractured into tiny little pieces, carried along in his bloodstream to pierce every part of his vulnerable being. He remembered asking what the suit was for. He didn’t want the upperclassmen to beat up on him, but Quentin had just said he felt looking nice that day.

Why didn’t he realize something was wrong? When they were together in their dorm, Quentin had seemed so content. At nights, when they sought each other’s warmth, he’d been afraid to leave for the bathroom or a drink because he would probably fall off the bed in an attempt to follow him. In the mornings, he would always take eons to get dressed. Shreve would pretend to leave, and since he knew Quentin would listen through the door to see if he had really left, he would hum until the other appeared with his untucked shirt and crooked glasses. They’d sprint to first period, Quentin explaining that he couldn’t afford any more cuts because the dean had spoken to him, and Shreve would look at his face. With cheeks rosy from the run, eyes sparkling from the morning sun, and wild hair tousled from the wind, Shreve thought he was the most beautiful being on earth.

And now, that perfect, glowing being was drenched and soggy, pulled up onto the grassy bank. His lips were blue, and his eyes were closed.

He couldn’t bear to see him like that. After one last look, just to make sure he really was gone, Shreve turned and ran. He didn’t have a particular destination in mind— all he knew was that if he didn’t leave immediately, Quentin would truly be dead.

Shreve ran hard, soles pounding into the dirt path. He ran away from the university, into the park where he could hide among the trees. His thighs burned, and his lungs heaved in ragged breaths. He half-tripped, half-flopped down under a tree with long, drooping branches.

What was it called again? Ah, yes. A weeping willow.

He laid there for a while, forearm draped across his eyes. He wanted the pink petals fluttering down to just cover him until all he could see was the image Quentin on the day they first met burned into the backs of his eyelids, laughing and blushing and apologizing for absolutely nothing. Maybe if he stayed still enough, time would pass him by and he’d be able to go back to the dorm and see his roommate sitting there, staring at the wall, pointedly avoiding the clock on the other side of the room.

“Hey, kid, y’ve stolen my spot,” Shreve moved the arm off his face and pulled himself up slightly. He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he just grunted. A man parted the curtain of branches, eyes widening in recognition upon spotting him. “Ah, the roommate! Sorry, I forgot t’ give ya somethin’. I promised that Quentin I’d get it to ya a couple'a days ago, but it kept slippin’ my mind. Well, here ya are. And I’ll even let ya keep the spot for t’day ta make up for th’ delay.” The man smiled and handed Shreve a white envelope before tipping his cap and departing. He stared at the thin, white object for a moment before registering what the man had said.

Quentin had left this for him.

He was almost afraid to open it. There was a part of him saying, if you don’t open it, he will still be alive. It won’t be real. But something compelled him to ignore that voice. It was time to be courageous— if not for himself, then for Quentin, at least. Inside the envelope was a letter, written out in his roommate’s familiar squiggly lettering.

  
_Shreve._

_I don’t know what you’re expecting this to say, but I feel like if I apologize all of it will be for naught, so I won’t._

_Do you ever think about how different things could be if everything stopped, even if just for a moment? You and me, we could ditch our last classes for the day and run out to the river where we first met._

_Sometimes, I think there can be beauty in things which are hideous. Is that unusual? I like to think of it as rooting for the underdog. I hate the color yellow, you know. It hurt my eyes to look at the honeysuckles along the edge of the woods at my house, yet somehow, when we walked along the bridge, the yellow irises were the most beautiful flowers I’d ever seen. They remind me of you, somewhat— bright and full of hope._

  
_“I’ve been with many” is what I told her, but the only person I could think of was you. My mother wanted me to marry and continue the Compson line, but I just couldn’t, not when the only person I’d want to spend my future with is you. I don’t blame you for feeling this way, of course. I’ve thought it might be all in my head, but that space is filled with a lot of thoughts about you._

_You never did anything wrong. You’re just Shreve the Canadian, the child of blizzards and of cold in a bathrobe with an overcoat above it and a turned up collar about your ears. You can withstand winters. You’re a survivor. In that way, you remind me a little of her. Maybe that’s why we hit it off so quickly._

_Me? I’m Quentin, the Southerner, the morose and delicate offspring of rain and steamy heat. I’m not built to fight, though you know I’ve tried._

_I’ve tried and I’ve failed, over and over and over. I think I may have a knack for failure, but with you, I never felt like I was losing. Seeing your cheeky smile after winning a bet or the twinkle in your eyes when you know you’ve won an argument made me think I was winning, too. Maybe I’m crazy, but I know those moments were real because when I looked at you sitting hunched over your desk in the wee hours of the morning, my soul ached. When you stumbled out of the classroom after that test, yawning and struggling to stay awake, I wanted to brush my thumbs gently under your eyes and sweep you up into my arms to take you back to your bed. You’ll probably laugh after reading that since you know I’m not strong enough to do that, but it didn’t stop me from thinking about it._

_My father told me to lay all my dreams to rest in the mausoleum of all hope and desire, but when I thought about you, I just couldn’t do it. He said there is no battle which has ever been won, or even fought in the first place, but when I make it through the day without remembering to check the watch, I feel like I’ve reached the top of the highest mountain. You made me stronger, but in the end, I was just too weak of a base to accept it._

_I know it’s not much, but I wanted to leave my dreams to you, Shreve. You were the one thing in my life that I got right, and the one person I don’t regret meeting. I felt like I could maybe have a future so long as you were in it. You’re the only one I can trust with this. I won’t tell you not to be sad, because that’s a part of life. I don’t want you to suffer, and I don’t want you to regret anything. I’m taking those with me so that you can live on._

_Live and grow. Do what I couldn’t. Fight for what you believe in, and win. Tell people what they mean to you. If you want something, go and get it without wondering if you deserve it, because you do. Never forget where you came from, how far you’ve come, and how much further you’ll continue to go. Don’t hate the South, but don’t go there, either._

  
_And one more thing: would you remember me?_

  
_Thanks for everything. I’m counting on you._

_— Q._

 

He pulled himself up and out of the weeping willow’s shelter. It wasn’t really bright, but the sun illuminated the cloud cover and parts of rays peeked through its gaps. He walked back on the path to town quietly, just listening to the birds and the burbling river.

Maybe it isn’t about going back to the way it used to be, Shreve thought. Maybe you didn’t have to get rid of your scars, because otherwise how would you remember what happened?

Would you remember me?

Of course.

  
His gaze passed past the bridge and over the river, settling on the grassy bank. There were little flowers growing, just barely bigger than buds, and Shreve tried to remember what kind they are.

Honeysuckles?

No.

Irises. 

**Author's Note:**

> In the language of flowers, yellow irises mean hope.


End file.
